Snapshots of Love
by ElanorRose
Summary: A collection of short little drabblets involving hobbits, among other things. Fanwork of not only LotR, but also Mary Borsellino's fanfiction series Pretty Good Year. Just a warning, so invloves characterizations that she introduced.
1. Of Birthdays

Rosie stood at the counter of Bag End's kitchen, deftly stirring the bowl of cake batter with her left hand while feeding bits of bread to baby Elanor with her right. She was now used to such juggling acts as this, as she'd been a mother for a full five months now. Elanor was growing into a full-fledged little girl. She matured with every baby step she took across the hardwood floor, and she was smiling her gummy smile at everyone who passed by these days. Rosie loved being a mother, and as of right now, she'd never been prouder of anything in her life.

The cake was for Frodo. As autumn's crisp apple scent wafted more and more commonly through the open air, his birthday drew closer. It was in exactly one week, and Rosie figured she'd better get an early start. She and Sam were planning something small, as was usual these days in the Baggins-Gamgee household, but still, there were so many things to do in preparation for making Frodo's day a good one.

Elanor squawked in her shill little voice, begging for more bread. _A true little Gamgee_, Rosie thought to herself laughingly as she stuffed the baby to her fill. _I mustn't get lost in thought anymore while taking care of the little one and cooking at the same time, though. I might be clumsy and drop boiling water on her precious fingers._

Rosie stretched her aching neck. Hunching over a book of recipes for hours at a time was not her ideal afternoon, but anything for Frodo. He was getting stronger and more willful every day. Soon, Rosie hoped and prayed, he'd be getting back to the way he was before all the darkness had crept in.

Rosie jumped as she heard Frodo himself walk into the kitchen sleepily. He'd just been napping in the back garden, and she hadn't heard him creep up.

"Good afternoon, Rosie-love. Isn't it a wonderful day outside?" He yawned widely while Rosie hastily tried to conceal any evidence of what she'd been doing prior. "Oh, what are you baking?" Too late. She fumbled for an excuse.

"Er... just a little something for... Mrs. Goldwater over in... yes, she had a son last week, and I thought I'd make her a little something..." She faltered, and smiled innocently, finishing with a vague semblance of a "Never you mind, Frodo dear." He chuckled. It was then that she noticed the sweat beading against his skin.

"Frodo, are you feeling alright?" she inquired, worried. "You're looking faint..."

"Oh, not entirely too well, but I'll be fine by tomorrow, I promise. I just--" He was cut off by a racking cough that exploded from his lungs, shaking his already thin frame with spasms. Rosie's hand scrambled over the messy countertop like a small peach crab, groping for a rag he could spit into, to clear his lungs, but it was to no avail, and by the time she reached him, he'd fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

"Frodo?!" Rosie cried, panicked. "SAMWISE?!" she called desperately out the back door. "We've got a bit of trouble..."

-----

They'd propped Frodo up on three feather pillows in the big bed after he'd awakened. He was still incredibly weak-looking as he lay with his eyes closed in a restful state, his skin looking an unhealthy white pallor against the deep cream of the pillowcases. Rosie stood in the last beams of sunlight streaming through the window, and looked at him sadly. She reached out and stroked his cheek, to comfort her own self of his solidity if not him.

"You just sleep now, right, Frodo?" Sam whispered sweetly from the foot of the bed. Rosie could see his knuckles were white, gripping the footboard in obvious discomfort. He worried so...

"Hmm?" Frodo opened his eyes; it seemed he hadn't heard much. "Oh no, I'm not tired, I just think I'll rest for a bit, so much to do..." And then he was asleep.

Both Sam and Rosie kissed his pale cheeks lovingly, and, hand in hand, made their way to Frodo's old room. They'd sleep there tonight.

-----

Rosie noticed him,while she changed his spread, gazing wistfully out the open window, out to the changing leaves of the forest beyond, and the golden ones of the new Party Tree. He caught her, and pulled her over to the bed.

"Why can't I have that, Rose?" He whispered painfully in his husky voice. She grabbed his cool, clammy fingers and sat at the edge of the bed.

"Tell me everything, Frodo. Everything. Don't let it build up, it'll rot you from within..." Her voice trailed as his eyes began to tear.

"I'm already rotten," he began with a heavy sigh. She tried to protest, but he cut her off, putting his finger over her small mouth. "I am, Rose. Tainted. I'll never be happy again, can't you see, and my soul's been absolutely ripped to shreds. And it's entirely my fault." Once again, she opened her lips, but closed them when he silenced her. "I was walking again, Rose. But I stumbled without expecting it. And the fall has taken such a toll on me. I'm lifeless now. It's in these days when I begin to realize the hold the ring had on me. It squeezed my soul shut form all love, I couldn't give it, couldn't take it..."

"But I thought we were doing so well, I thought we'd near enough cracked through that shell for good!"

"I know Rose, but it doesn't work... the darkness has taken me. I can't fight it, I've fallen in."

Rosie sighed. "Frodo, if you don't mind my saying so, it just seems that you're sad, not sick."

"I am sad, and that's why I'm sick. The sadness is my illness. I can't fight it without hope, and I have none."

This was utter nonsense in Rosie's mind. Of course he had hope. Wasn't a child enough for him? Elly's growth was what used to bring him out of bed every morning. She told him just that indignantly.

"But Rose, I try so hard, but I can't see that anymore. I'm all in the dark, and I can't find my way home. Hope is an empty thought now, and I can't fight. The truth is, I'm scared. Scared of what could happen if I chased the dark away."

"Then we'll fight for you. Those demons in your soul won't stand a chance against the love in our hearts for you. Can't you see? We love you so much that it's painful to see you so afraid." They were both crying now, big, wet tears that drenched their clothes.

"Thank you... thank you... I want to be happy... I love you, Rose..."

"I love you too, Frodo dear."

They sat like that for a long time, Frodo's head buried in Rosie's chest as she stroked his curls gently.

-----

"Motherhood suits you, " Frodo commented from the bed as Rosie tidied the fireplace, balancing Elly on her hip at the same time.

"Fatherhood would suit you, too, silly, if you'd stop being so tragically sad." Rosie gave him a half smile. It was the truth, he'd make a wonderful father.

"No," Frodo replied with a sigh. "You and Sam and Elly-duck are wonderful, and you're all the family I could ever ask for."

But his eyes got misty and sad, and Rosie tiptoed out the door, closing it behind her with a barely audible click.

-----

It became apparent that Frodo's birthday would not be everything they'd planned. Rosie and Sam, however, vowed resolutely to make him happier than he'd been yet in the past week. In the early hours of the morning, they crept to the big bed, candles atop the cake burning brightly.

Elanor was set upon Frodo's chest, and squealed happily as she played pat-a-cake with his face, waking him quickly.

"Oh, my dears," cried Frodo joyfully. "You are the best family I could ask for."

"We love you too, silly duck," Rosie chuckled as Elanor crooned with delight at her family being together and happy again.

They crowded into the big bed, arms holding lovingly and sat in gentle tenderness.

"Happy birthday, Frodo," Rosie whispered.

-----

A/N: Yes, I realize this is ridiculously AU if compared to the dates set about in the book, but, then again, so is PGY in and of itself. I could fix it, but I'm REALLY too lazy.

Love!

-Shae


	2. From Up Close

From up close, the blades of grass look like wide velvet emerald ribbons, twisting themselves into loops and swirls and spirals until they are all a maze of green, indiscernible from one blade to the next. The impeccably blue eyes of one seven-year-old Elanor Garder survey their misty silken depths with a serious air, while the rest of her stretches out across the expanse of green, spread-eagle and belly-down on Bag End's roof.

Her ponderous gaze wanders an inch or so until it comes across a caterpillar, hunching its way across a leaf it's been enjoying. Elanor scrunches her nose at the sight, curious, but still remembering the fear and surprise of her first touch of caterpillar at the age of five months.

The caterpillar drops from the leaf and out of her vision, and Elanor's thoughts are as fragmented and wispy as the few spun sugar clouds that puff across today's expanse of robin's egg sky. Sunlight touches the tip of her nose, and Elanor wonders whether everyone's hearts would be nicer if they had the chance to be this golden, this pure every now and then.

Elanor feels a hand on her back, and turns her head sideways to find herself staring into the equally blue eyes of one Uncle Frodo. She smiles slightly, and pokes her tongue out, not far enough to be insulting, just far enough to be playful. He lifts an eyebrow at her choice of greetings, but smiles still, and lets out a long breath, relieved to be living again. His four-fingered hand finds her chubby white one, and he squeezes it tight, feeling the life in her palm travel in to his own willingly.

They sit up together, basking in the golden light as it slowly begins to slip down beyond the horizon, feeling that slight but slow taffy-like pull of the day slipping away, wanting it to linger but willing to let it go. Elanor pulls herself into Frodo's lap, slight beginnings of evening air brushing her cheeks as she kisses his lips, light as a butterfly's wings, just enough to let him know she loves him. Burying her face in his dark hair, she snuggles in closer, content to enjoy a moment that was once just hers with him.

Twilight slips into evening with barely a moment's notice, and before long there are sounds of clambering feet from below that bring their attention out of their own minds where it's been for so long. Soon they hear a chorus of voices calling their names, and, without a verbal word, both acknowledge that it's time to leave this second, this minute, this day, this year, this lifetime, this eternity, in exchange for a succulent morsel of Rosie's lovely garlic chicken. Before they rise, Elanor pushes Frodo's hair away from his ear and murmurs something sweet, something wanting, that could have been a "Love you, Fo," or could have been something else, Frodo will never know.

Then, slowly, pale hand grasping pale hand, they meander their way down the hill into the growing darkness.


	3. Hot

Hot. And red, and flame, and her cheeks burn like someone just took a cherry-red poker to them. And she sweats and flames, and she needs to sleep, but, oh, she can't because she'll close her eyes and they'll sting and steam and drown her in red smoke. And, oh, she can't find cool anywhere, not even in a drink of water, because it touches her red-raw throat and evaporates and she gets nothing. Nothing of nothing. And she cries, and her tears feel like lava running tracks down sooty crimson cheeks. And she can't keep down food because her throat aches like she swallowed volcanic rock whole and if she ate her stomach would roil like Mount Doom and everything would come back up again, and she is hungry and burning and tired oh so tired.

And the blankets, they ensnare her, and she twists herself this way and that but she can't get out, and she feels closed in and swollen at the same time. And her ears roar, and she can barely hear the words of comfort whispered to her by her parents. And she is HOT.

And then, there comes cool, cool like morning breeze and snowy flakes that melt on your tongue and hands hold hers tight and squeeze. Smooth, ink-stained fingers that make tinkle-bell silk sounds on the pumice-woven rough blankets holding her with a vice-like grip. And then she hears a soft butterfly-wing whisper that says delightfully "Ah, it will be better soon and it's only a bad fever and you'll be alright." And the words sound like waterfall to her icy-hot head.

And then he closes her eyelids tight down and calls her Ruby-red, not Ruby-blue this time.

----

A/N: Hi. I really need to remember to start putting disclaimers on these things. Everything belongs to Tolkien and/ or Mary. You can find PGY in its entirety at . It's probably important that you read it or West of the Moon to get this.

Oh, and Ruby is Sam's youngest daughter. 3 Ruby-blue!!


End file.
